Duel
by Silmarillion
Summary: Draco and Harry meet by chance, determined to bring to a close a duel begun years before. And do you really think Draco has learned to play fair? Pre-slash.


Title: Duel  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: The second Voldemort war has begun. Sides have been chosen, lines have been drawn. But since when is the world in black and white? Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter meet by chance, determined to bring to a close a duel begun years before. And do you really think Draco's learned to play fair?   
  
Disclaimer: Surprisingly enough, I own none of the characters in this fic.

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Deceit in the conduct of war outweighs valor and is worthy of merit.

Niccolo Machiavelli

"So, the essence of this plan is what?"

"Zabini's decided to capture Potter's friend for use as bait and general unpleasant things. It's been so long since we've had a good Muggle-burning; I think the Weasel would be an adequate substitute."

"Pardon?"

"I didn't say that it was an intelligent plan. I'm just reporting as ordered, most esteemed father. I believe you told me to 'become your eyes and ears among—'"

"What did I do to deserve such impertinence?"

I think the torture chamber might lead to some pretty bad Karma, but one really should seek an expert opinion.

"Some see the recent deaths as room for advancement."

"And this is a way to go about it? Mórrígan save us, the youth of today are incompetent _and _suicidal."

"It's not as bad as it seems. Greengrass came up with some of the details."

"Good. It would be a pity to for a Malfoy to die in such an act of stupidity."

"WHAT?!"

"My dear boy, you are to keep us informed on the actions of the younger contingent. And that means accompanying them on all such excursions. It could be just an elaborate cover for a rebellion; you know what happened to Grindewald. Also, in the case that it succeeds, it's rather difficult to take credit if you weren't even there."

"Ah. And it's so likely that's going to happen."

"I would do my best to ensure that it did. I've noticed your utter lack of attention to anything beyond that damned Weasley girl. I'm sure Lord Voldemort has also made note of your devotion to the cause."

"Might I humbly remind you that the Weasley girl spent a good portion of her school-days stalking Potter? She's useful."

"What a convincing liar you are."

"Runs in the family. In fact—"

"I _suggest_ that you come back with Ronald Weasley or die trying. Don't worry, I have faith in you."

"Am I dismissed?"

"_Go_."

**********

Five more minutes. Can someone give me an intelligent explanation as to why my presence is required at this particular spot? I'm a _Malfoy_, bred to give commands, not guard some bloody door. But here I sit. As soon as they've got the Weasel, I can get out of here, thank Merlin. What a stupid plan. But I'll look on the bright side—maybe I'll get to torture the Mudblood. Which curse should I start with? I smile, and quit tapping my wand against the doorjamb. Awful habit, that. Makes it look as if I'm nervous. I wince, thinking what would happen if I did that in front of Father. And it's not even a nice doorjamb. Whoever built this warehouse had no taste.

Then something completely unexpected happened. Or rather, something completely unexpected to the sods who planned this little excursion. Someone other than me should have anticipated it. I would never have come up with such a bloody stupid plan without taking certain factors into account. But I did go along with this scheme, so I suppose questioning my sanity is excusable. 

Drum roll, please. The equally hideous outer door (Hmm . . . wonder if local Muggles find the tacky Gothic imitation somewhat suspicious?) flies open and in lumbers the Boy Wonder himself. Could he make more noise if he tried? But what's the point of a daring rescue if you can't make enough noise to alert all the _Witch Weekly _underlings within a twenty-mile radius? Potter wouldn't be caught dead doing something as pointless as performing heroic deeds off camera. Or wearing a hood.

I slink into the shadows, half covered by some mouldy fabric. No point in letting him know I'm here. Yet. Potter pulls something out of his sleeve, a roughly circular object that reflects the light. I look closer—it appears to be a tracking charm. Unsurprising. I do hope the team did manage to put the wards up. But knowing Zabini it's doubtful. Finally aware of his dismal and dusty surroundings, Potter decides to cower behind a pillar.

"Bit late for stealth," I drawl, stepping out of the shadows. He starts, confirming my suspicion that he hadn't the faintest intimation that someone else was in the room. I bet he slept through Voldemort's attack back when he was an infant. "Of course, you've always been rather slow. I seem to recall a certain incident in fourth year. In a graveyard, not too far from here, I believe." He eyes me warily. Damn. Looks like he did learn something with the Birdbrain Order. A year ago he would have thrown away the wand and gone for my throat. I finger my wand, wondering if Zabini's Brilliant Plan #247 has defied expectations and not gone wrong in the first two minutes.

He continues to lean against the column, immobile except for his darting eyes. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought. Hmm . . . the _Imperius _could be amusing. I take my time. Things have been so dull lately and I intend to enjoy this completely. A chance to take on Harry Potter himself, to deliver him to the Dark Lord. Fortune, glory and the opportunity to make Father look like a proper fool, all within easy reach. I hope he'll put up some sort of a fight.

The lump finally notices the wand in my hand and grips his own so hard that his knuckles turn white. Maybe I can convince his Supreme Evilness to pit Potter in his current state against Goyle. Or maybe Crabbe; I think Goyle was killed a few weeks ago. Not that I could ever tell them apart. Potter starts yelling to my dear companions, who he seems to believe are still here, having taken a ridiculously long time to kidnap his friend. The Rosier brat, Prince of Incompetents, is with them, so who knows. They may still be here. Thoroughly annoyed with the whole scheme, I decide that I've given them enough time. A good curse from behind ought to do it. But for some reason I wait.

"Take me instead! Just let Ron go." Potter brandishes his wand in a good impression of the Longbottoms. Or Lestrange after a few too many. The heroics are accompanied by a rather poor Angsty Puppy face. After all these years of playing the poor little orphan, you'd think he could act. Apparently he only plays whiny pillocks with bad hair. But Potter keeps yelling. I think he intends to pull down the column with his bare hands.

I'll never understand Gryffindors. Potter the Self-Sacrificing, nobly offering himself to save his friend, even though it will lead to the hostile take-over of the entire wizarding world and ultimately prolonging Weasley's death. At least if I have any say in it. 

Yes, _that_ makes sense. So I'm not perfect, either; I didn't expect the bait to work this quickly. Enough of that, time for some action.

I smirk and raise my wand. He recognises the gesture and does the same as I move into a duelling stance. The rug's going to be bad for footing—who the hell puts a rug in a warehouse? He observes the niceties, as always. Halfway through his bow, I throw off a minor jinx.

But Potter's Quidditch-honed reflexes are faster than that. Inwardly I smile—this is going to be _fun._ He quickly jumps back onto his feet, wand pointed at my chest. He waits for me to do something and, of course, I comply.

"_Tarantallegra!_" I yell, in not so fond memory of our first duel. He begins to twitch, then breaks into a full-fledged dance. Like it, Potter? I've waited six years for this. Sportingly, I wait for him to dredge up the counter-charm. It's difficult to keep concentration when you're laughing at your enemy suffering stage one of payback. Plus it's hard to be dignified when you're doubled over with laughter.

Potter recovers quickly, an odd expression on his face. The look of confusion remains as he hurls some stupid curse a first year could do. With a withering glance, I move my head slightly, as the curse speeds harmlessly by. Potter's facial expression is getting to me, though. What the . . . _oh_.

"Hint, Potter. Shielding Charms don't work within warded areas. Or did Lupin forget to share that little bit of crucial information?" Ah, I've finally hit on something. His face falls, but just for a moment. Oh, drat—my taunt seems to have reinvigorated him.

"Don't you dare mention Lupin!" He tries a Confundus Curse, but with very poor aim.

"How cliché. Not my fault your bloody perfect order developed prejudices and decided to have a werewolf hunt. _Restringo!_" He manages to block it. Yes, this will take a while.

"_Relashio!_" It forces me to jump backward, fiery sparks smouldering on the hem of my robe. Think of a spell, Draco, any spell. Finally I put them out. Potter has a bit of a grin on his face. Odd as it sounds, he's enjoying this. Ah, well. Must not have filled his rescue quota for the week. I'm sure Weasley qualifies as a distressing damsel.

"_Stupefy!" _He blocks, still with the idiotic grin on his face.

"Incendio!" I block. What is it, pyromaniac day?

"Furnuculus!" I think it's going to . . . no. No effect.

"Locomotor Mortis!" No time to think, and both of us keep casting spells as quickly as possible. I can't keep this up much longer. Not my fault the rest of the Death Eaters prefer feasting on the blood of Muggles to a good game of Quidditch. Bad for the waistline, too.

I throw at him the first thing that comes to mind, a Twitchy Ears Hex. Juvenile but maddening, with a fiendishly difficult-to-remember counter-charm. As Potter comes up with something else, I take cover behind a large box. As I try to catch my breath I realise that Potter is taking a breather, too. Red-faced and panting, I peek over the top of the box. 

Determining that he's not currently a threat, I rest my head on the filthy box top. I'm drenched with sweat and there's a metallic tang in my mouth. Still grasping my wand, I put a hand up to my face. Yep, bitten my lip rather nastily. Why can't I think of a decent healing charm when I need one? Potter, on the other hand, looks a little grimy but none the worse for wear; the dirt on his clothing is certainly an improvement. Can't let him feel superior, so I decide to get up. I'm a Malfoy; we do suicidal things for the sake of taunting. Before I do so, I pull a bottle from my robes and gulp down the rather nasty tasting draught.

"Had enough, Potter?" Ridiculous, since I couldn't speak distinctly myself. Ah, the wonders of the Quick-Recovery Potion. Completely illegal, supposedly due to the ingredient list—I _really_ don't want to know what's in it, and as for the side-effects...well, I don't even want to _think_ about those. But it does such a great job of slanting the playing field that it's worth a medium-sized risk.

"You . . . wish," he snarls, throwing out his arm violently. A Jelly-legs hex catches me square in the face, causing a few seconds of frightful unpleasantness. You will pay, Potter.

"_Reducto!"_ I retaliate.He ducks at the last possible second, and instead of hurling him across the room, it hits the column. There's a cracking noise, followed by a fine puff of dust. We both stare in shock as a hairline crack appears. I hold my breath as I watch it grow larger. Quashing the instinct to drop to the floor with my hands over my head, I try to remember any sort of repairing charm.

"You idiot!" This from _Potter_, who has no right to be talking to anyone about idiocy. He turns to the pillar, raising his wand. "_Reparo!"_ It has no effect whatsoever. See what I mean? 

"I can't do it myself!" he yells over the noise of the falling plaster. "Come on!" What? Does he think I'm stupid enough to fall for something like that?

"Move it, Malfoy! The whole thing's going to come down!" The column is leaning rather precariously. Maybe while Potter's distracted . . . I shrug and run over.

He nods, gesturing to the moulded top where a little angel is quickly losing its head. Potter yells something. I can't hear him, but assume it has something to do with getting out of our predicament. That or some last minute confession about how he has always loved me. Ugh.

"_REPARO!" _It feels like the entire weight of the roof is settling on my wrist. I glance over at Potter, who is exhibiting his exertion by grunting. Determined not to be outdone, I . . . _push_ upward. It's an odd sensation, as if I'm forcing my wand through the concrete of the ceiling. There's a flash of light, a final coating of dust, and an ear-splitting screech. I hit the floor hard, and everything goes black.

I groggily open my eyes to discover that the roof has not, in fact, relocated to directly above my head. I think. My eyes tell me one thing, the sensation in my head another. I can't see Potter and moving my head is rather painful. I close my eyes and run a mental check-up. Yes, head, torso, legs, all fingers are present and accounted for. Sighing with relief, I struggle to get up. Potter is already on his feet, not even looking at me. I'd Crucio him if I had enough strength to move my arm.

"So . . . " he says, shaking the dust out of his hair. If I were running around punishing evildoers everywhere, I'd manage to find a hairstylist. It seems rather bad form to let the villain get away because you had hair in your face. But that's just me.

"_Crucio_," I mutter.

He glares. "I'll give you five minutes to recover. Then you can turn around and either get out the door or hand over your wand and show me where they took Ron."

"I'll take option C," I croak. Stupid dust.

Potter raises an eyebrow. "So I kill you here?"

"I'd like to see you try," I sneer. It was followed by a moan which rather diminished the effect. A huge piece of plaster just fell on my head. Give me a few minutes to come up with something up to my usual standards.

"Damnit, Malfoy. It's me you're after, me Voldemort wants. Why do you have to go after the innocents?" He can say that with a straight face? Maybe Potter is a better actor than I give him credit for.

"There are no innocents." On with the clichés. "Or do you mean Virginia?" _Score_. He tries to throttle me, but I stop him with a simple Deflecting Charm.

"She joined us because she wanted to, Potter. Going after the Weasel was her idea; she knows how much he means to you." Slight stretch of the truth. She was in the room when Zabini came up with it and that's about it. But it has the desired effect.

"I don't care what you've done to her, she would never—"

"Really? You don't know anything about her. The closest thing you've had to a conversation with her was back in fourth year," I interrupt. He babbled about the _Imperius, _but soon trailed off. Potter's always been such a bad liar. Oddly enough I've never had trouble with that: notice how he never actually doubted me. Another little trick of Father's—develop a mannerism, a curl of the lip or twitch of the eyebrow, when you're telling a small lie. Make sure to use it often and people think they have you down.

"You and the other Slytherins were always snotty little bastards, but . . . why? What did she ever do to you? There was no reason for you to . . . " His voice breaks, and he turns his face away. I give him another minute until he starts crying.

"It's war," I say coldly, struggling to my feet. "You've made yourself vulnerable. We merely strike at your weak spots." I move to lean nonchalantly against the remnants of the pillar and think better of it. Instead I lower myself tentatively onto a storage crate, ignoring the thick coating of dust. Note to self: wear material that wears well on next mission. Not very stylish, but the poor lighting should take care of that.

"There is only power and those too weak to seek it," Potter muttered bitterly, as if quoting. "You cowards," he spat. Ouch, Potter. That was such a _terrible_ insult that I shall never recover. "Why don't you go after the Aurors? Wouldn't that please your master more than capturing little girls?"

"We . . . did . . . not . . . _capture_ her," I say slowly, as if to a particularly stupid student. "And what about you?" He starts to say something, but I hold up a hand. The Malfoy air of command is infallible, and I take a perverse pleasure in his reaction.

"Don't kill the women and children, you say. Do these names ring a bell: Gregory Goyle, Morag MacDougal, Tristan Nott? All younger than you are now when they were killed in the Dark Lord's service. Don't you remember Morag, the pretty little Ravenclaw who helped you pass Transfiguration in fifth year? Such a sweet girl, with an amazing memory for Quidditch trivia." He cringes at the memory of former classmates, but worse is yet to come. 

"And what about Lilith Lestrange? Remember her? We found her body scattered across a field outside Hogsmeade." Unlike Potter I manage to keep my voice even, impassive. "Someone enjoyed what they were doing."

"I . . . it was self-defence." He shuddered. Can you picture it: the blood, the sign of the Phoenix carved into what was left of her arm, the expression on her face evidence that it was not a painless Avada Kedavra that killed her? I hope it haunts your nightmares. "I would never . . . if I had been there . . ."

"Would you really have stopped it?" Finally, Potter is beginning to break. Ridiculously easy. "Let a known Death Eater, responsible for the driving the Longbottoms insane, go free? No, I think not."

"They made their decision when they joined Voldemort. We were merely defending ourselves. There was nothing else to be done!" Potter yelled, as if mere volume could replace logic.

"Be proud of yourself, Potter. Now that you've sunk to our level, you might have a chance of defeating us," I say calmly, with derision.

"Why am I listening to you? There have been some unnecessary deaths, but . . ." His face twisted with pain. I look at him in a detached manner, as if examining an interesting specimen in Care of Magical Creatures. It was intended to infuriate him. "Who are you to criticise me? You've killed dozens . . . even your own mother." Too far, Potter. 

"Yes," I hiss dangerously. "I have blood on my hands. But no more than you. You cry to avenge the deaths of some Muggles you never knew, yet slaughter your classmates, the witches and wizards you grew up with. Your precious Godric thought nothing of putting wards around Hogwarts castle powerful enough to kill anyone without magical blood who tried to cross the barrier. This is how it's always been, how it's meant to be."

"That was back then. They were trying to destroy the wizards," he says softly. "Just because mistakes were made in the past doesn't mean that _I_ am going to repeat them," Potter finishes vehemently. I don't miss the emphasis.

"I? I wasn't aware that you intended to run for Minister." Potter tries to deny it, as unsuccessfully as always. "At least Voldemort is open about his goals."

"No," he whispers. "I'm going to save them." His voice gains strength. "I'm not going to drop down to your level, but I will triumph. Even if Voldemort kills me, there will always be someone fighting against him. You can never truly win, Malfoy. As long as someone believes in justice, then light will prevail." If I'd wanted to hear Dumbledore's last speech, I would have paid attention before Voldemort killed him.

"Power, Potter, and those too weak to achieve it." He ignores me; mentally preparing himself for what he knows must be done. Potter's sentenced plenty to their deaths, sent out squads to do his dirty work, but he's never killed, not in cold blood. He was right—there is that difference between us. His hand shakes, and the wand falls to the floor.

"So this is the limit, Potter? Always have to send someone else to do the messy work, don't you?"

He doesn't say a word, just stares at his wand lying on the stone floor. I close my eyes, listening carefully for any movement. Come on, Potter.

"Damn you, Malfoy. I don't want this, I never wanted this," he says, his eyes clear, his face dry. "All I ever wanted was to be normal, for this all to be a bad dream."

"Don't lie. This is who you are. It's all you are, ever since you received that letter. You're the bloody Boy Who Lived, destined to kill Voldemort or die in the attempt. What's left once he's gone? You have no family; you'll push your friends away in a misguided attempt to protect them. And they won't understand; you're already starting to see it. You'll have lost everything except a bunch of reporters hounding you." Where's that coming from? But I can't stop talking. It's the head wound, I tell you.

"And me."

"What?" Potter's actually listening. Maybe I haven't botched this as completely as I thought.

"The only other thing that's been consistent. I've seen it. You would if you let yourself. Every triumph, every Gryffindor celebration you sought me out. You had to look at me, see that I was forced to acknowledge your victory. Nothing mattered but beating me. You claimed it was because I insulted your Mudblood friend, or simply as a way to get back at the Slytherins, the Death Eaters in training, but you know that's not true. It wouldn't have mattered if you'd been in Slytherin yourself. The hatred goes far deeper than petty house rivalry." I look him straight in the face. The deep green eyes lock onto mine, until he finally glances away. He does not dispute it.

"You can't imagine a world without me in it. Winning means nothing to you if I'm not there to see it. As much as you may hate it, I'm a part of you." And I intend to exploit it for all it's worth. "That's why you can't kill me." 

Picking up the wand, Potter starts to roll it over in his hands. Potter the Brave, refusing to face something that he doesn't like. He can't stand it, not being able to act. He doesn't accept things; he changes them. At wandpoint if necessary. But there's nothing he can do with a wand now.

It works both ways, Potter. And however much you hate this connection, I despise it infinitely more. Eleven years old and ordered to become friends with the Boy Who Lived, the boy who I had been taught to hate long before I got my first broomstick. I'm nearly a year older than you, Potter. And the first memories of a wizard are much earlier than those of a Muggle. 

I remember my world coming apart, my parents forced to deny their place of honour next to the greatest sorcerer since Grindewald. Ministry officials searching the Manor, taking anything that struck their fancy. And then some kindly old souls telling my toddler self exactly what was happening to my parents' friends, my godparents. I woke up in the middle of the night, scared that Aurors had come to get me just like that they had done to most of the adults I knew. I stifled my sobs of terror, knowing what would come from Father if I showed any sign of weakness in front of the Unspeakables who constantly combed through the Manor. I remember, and do not forgive.

I inch my foot forward, on top of my wand. Potter's head is buried in his hands. I push it closer and, with a single movement, retrieve it and straighten up, pointing it at Potter's heart.

He lifts his head and looks at me for a split second. There's a crack across his glasses, making his eyes unreadable. Then his gaze shifts to the ropes that have suddenly bound him to nearest storage crate. He struggles violently, and the magical ropes tighten.

"You . . . you said . . ." He's having trouble breathing, as the ropes continue to squeeze. He finally slumps with exhaustion and the bonds loosen to a more comfortable pressure.

"I said _you_ couldn't kill _me_. I'm not the one with such a unique mixture of sentimentality and hatred." I raise my wand, waiting for him to cringe away. "Not that it matters. The Dark Lord wants you alive. But it wouldn't be my fault if I killed you in a duel." Major bluff there, but since I'm supposed to be evil incarnate, might as well play the part.

"NO! Doesn't only need flesh, blood, bone. Not all of rite." Potter babbles hysterically. Rather pathetic. I would think that of all people, he'd face death with a little more style. But 'flesh, blood and bone' seems vaguely familiar. Some potion? He calms down a bit and I let him talk.

"Fourth year, Voldemort's resurrection. He didn't finish the ritual, has to kill me for that. As long as my blood runs in both his body and mine, he's not invincible. And he's got to kill me." And I'm supposed to believe that? Potter senses my disbelief. "Hermione found it in some old scroll. Salazar Slytherin tried the same thing, but never completed the rite. His son killed him."

How would Potter know that? Slytherin's death is a story I learned in infancy, but no one knows the specifics of the immortality ritual. I don't like this; it makes sense.

"As long as I'm alive, he can be killed. You could kill him and take over." Potter does know something about me. But he doesn't know Voldemort. The Dark Lord may be demoted to spirit form, but he can never be destroyed. What kind of idiot would go after an immortal being?

"Intriguing, but I don't think so. I've invested much of the past ten years being a loyal follower. That's not the kind of thing you throw away on the word of someone who'd say anything to save his skin."

"Do it, then." He raises his chin and looks at me.

"Do what?" So many brushes with death have affected his simple little mind.

"The Killing Curse. It's better than letting him have me."

"I seem to recall you saying that your death was required for him to morph from Super Evil Overlord to Even More Evil Dictator who can take over the universe with a nice old fashioned bloody coup just because there isn't a good Quidditch game this weekend."

"He's the one who has to do it. Please." Oh, great. Potter pleading with me to kill him. I surreptitiously pinch myself. Unfortunately, this is not a nightmare.

"No. For all I know killing you would bring about Voldemort's downfall. I'm not in any shape to deal with hundreds of very angry Death Eaters. Plus, could you think of a less strategic spot than this stupid warehouse?"

"I'm not the one who picked this as a great kidnapping spot."

"It worked," I snap irritably.

"Or there is another option," he says more cheerfully. I raise an eyebrow. "You could undo the bonds and tell me where they took Ron. Make yourself scarce for a few days; it'll give you time to think of a plausible story if Voldemort wins."

"That sounds more like you, Potter. Desperate last stand, one person against twenty. Into the shadow with teeth bared, screaming defiance with the last breath. Which is what it most certainly would be."

Potter looks slightly indignant. He has a rather low opinion of Voldemort's bodyguards. Wormtail doesn't look like much, but he knows what will happen to him if anyone gets near his Master and is accordingly paranoid. The possibility of a rat permanently hanging off your arse is enough of an annoyance factor to deter most would-be assassins.

"I could do it. And even if I died in the attempt, it's better than just sitting here and doing nothing. I'd rather be killed trying to rescue Ron than know I stayed here, safe, while they tortured him."

"And then what? You'd be dead, soon to be followed by the friend you failed to save. What would that accomplish? After all those years with Muggles do you believe in life after death? Then you get to roast in Hell for all eternity to atone for the murder of countless not very innocents. You Gryffindors and death before dishonour—why? You're just as dead. It's pointless." Why can't I shut up? This really isn't the time for one of my rants on the futility of Gryffindork philosophy.

"No, it's not pointless. My father died bravely, trying to protect my mum and me. He died thinking he had failed, but that doesn't lessen his sacrifice." Potter looked angelic.

"He did fail. Where is your mum now? Don't tell me. I don't want to here some sappy story about her love living on." Why am I letting him do this to me? I curse softly, trying to decide what to do.

Potter babbles something about the greats who have given the ultimate sacrifice, and are remembered in song and story. I mentally file it away, then catch myself. End game. Checkmate. There's no reason to care about what Potter says anymore. No reason to watch him, no reason to spend every waking hour trying to hurt him.

I can't take it anymore. I move so I'm standing directly in front of Potter. I raise my wand and see the fear in his eyes, though he tries to hide it. I want to say something unpleasant, comparing him unfavourably to the father he adores, but nothing comes out. Instead I move closer to him. Gently I touch my wand to his temple and take a deep breath. There's something to be said for the crude Muggle methods, that sense of control you get from close contact with your victim. Much better than an Avada Kedavra from across the room.

I prepare myself. One . . . two . . . I double over in pain. A brand of fire, thrust though my body and pulling me irresistibly toward Voldemort. I want to Apparate, anything to make the pain stop. But I will not be, have never been, at his beck and call. 

Father finds my little acts of rebellion amusing. I find that they keep me sane. It's an unspoken agreement, created the day I disobeyed him for the first time and refused to cultivate a friendship with the great and wonderful Potter. It wasn't until I was older that I realised Father's acceptance of my disobedience had nothing to do with my astuteness in preserving the Malfoy name and avoiding the greater evil of a friendship with a Weasley. I think he was secretly proud of me. That would be the only time. But I've been groomed my whole life to take my father's position at Voldemort's left hand. At least, that's what he claims. I wonder if he even admits to himself that it's an easily controllable Dark Lord that he really wants. But he should know by now that's not what I am.

Still grasping my wand, I cradle my left arm. The Dark Mark burns with an intensity I have not often felt. I straighten up with difficulty, knowing what I must do.

I whisper a spell and a small blade projects from my wand. Clumsy with pain, I nick Potter's face. He recoils, not understanding what I'm doing. A line of blood appears on his cheek. With his screwed up eyes and grimy face, Potter looks about five years old. Lamb to the slaughter. I never looked that innocent. 

With a twist of the wrist, the cords around his neck part. Another slice and his hands are free. I remove the final bonds around his feet. He stumbles forward but quickly recovers. I see a question forming. Can't tell him that I can never remember the sodding counter-charm to get rid of the ropes.

"Sometimes you have to be kind to be cruel," I say. With that, I Disapparate.


End file.
